Until I Forget

With time and reflection, Herself grows ordinary. If she is still fascinating, she no longer fascinates. If she is still attractive, she no longer attracts. What she hides—what I wanted from her—she can keep. Once the challenge I set myself, she’s now only the futility. In love, what isn’t given isn’t true. Pursuit is a lie. She is a lie too long denied. What does that make me? The recovering liar? With her ordinariness grows louder the lament over wasted…just about everything. But what use, the keening? Ordinary strips from her the emotion I’d given her, takes back what was mine, the gift not accepted—and rightfully. I became the man she’d thought I was. I wanted her to be wrong, but I could only prove her right. Behind and ahead, I see clearly. It’s right in front of my face I can’t make out. Of the past I see that at best I held no interest to her; and at worst, following a disdain I did not respect, aversion. Of the future, which is near enough, I see a life as separate from hers as hers has always been from mine, and I won’t care. Of now, I cannot quite accept either vision. As always, knowing is not being, not until I forget what I know.

You must be my most faithful reader, Ariane. I’m glad that you could see the progress I was trying to express. That has always been important to me, given that so many people close to me thought the writing was detrimental to my healing.

It’s always nice to hear from you. I’m sorry I have nothing new to write for you, but the writing has healed me, and I have not since felt the need to write again. My soul is seeking another form of expression, I think. I am in love with an extraordinary woman who has taught me how to love healthily, openly and honestly. Maybe one day I will be able to express that in words and have a new reason to write.